Wishing You Integrity, Compassion, Courage and Joy

I wish for you, my youngest son,

the things you had when you were young.

But you are now in middle age

and my sweet lad has been a long time gone.

The qualities that you had once —

I don't know where or when they went;

I don't know why you lost them all.

You'd think a mother should know, but I don't.

Sometimes I think it must have been

in childhood, in some gap between

day and night or school and home,

that these things somehow slipped away unseen.

Or was it slow and gradual,

unnoticed, almost invisible,

though evident later — the way that stone

erodes to dust, infinitesimal?

Integrity. You still had that

at 18, when you found out

the insurance you sold was paying for

your bosses' fancy cars and clothes — a cheat!

You visited all the clients you'd signed,

explained they'd gained no peace of mind,

unsigned them, advising that a bank

would give a better deal; then you resigned.

And I was prouder of you then

than if it was a medal you'd won.

Better than riches, the love of truth.

You own it now: truth shifts to your design.

Compassion? Even as a child

meeting smaller children, you smiled

and gently patted their little heads.

They and I were instantly beguiled.

How tender you were with animals,

how keen to help all troubled souls,

how generous. Last time we met

you alternated threats and bribes and yells.

If I knew what was good for me

I only had to do and be

whatever you dictated. Or else.

The comforter who held my hand, where was he?

You still have courage, I suppose,

for mountain heights and slippery snows.

But not enough to face yourself

without the daily dose of pills and booze.

And as for joy, I still recall

your father saying with a smile,

'Happy baby, happy adult.'

For sure you were a joyful little child.

But now there is no joy to see;

just anger, pain and misery.

What stole your joy? Your father's death?

Or something else you never shared with me?

The qualities that you had once —

I don't know where or when they went;

I don't know why you lost them all.

You'd think a mother should know, but I don't.

I wish for you, my youngest son,

the things you had when you were young.

But you are middle-aged and I am old,

and my sweet lad has been a long time gone.

Note: We are completely and permanently estranged, by my choice, and he is most unlikely to read this. If he ever does, it will be further proof to him of my evil and insanity.

Prompt 24 for 'Poems in April' at 'imaginary garden with real toads' is to write a poem wishing for one or more of the qualities named.  (Fairytale aspects optional, but scarcely applicable here, unless in the grimmest ways.)